Mutual Idiocy
by sing.us.a.song.21
Summary: A drabble collection focusing around John and Sherlock. Friendship only, ranging from just little moments between cases to more intense emotional pieces. Ch. 6: John notices a new addition to 221B Baker St.
1. Probably

**A/N: Hey guys! So, this will basically just be a collection of short drabbles, mostly focused around John, cause he's like the most amazing character ever. Also, if any of you have something you want to see written up, you can tell me and I'll see if I'm inspired. And I don't do slash stories. Of course, nothing of Sherlock is mine. I hope you all enjoy! **

John Watson should probably have been concerned when the man with whom he was considering sharing a flat - a man he had only met for all of two minutes the day previous, a man who kept a skull on the mantelpiece, a man who could read a person's every thought and secret simply by looking – compared five serial suicides to Christmas. He should probably have been concerned when Sherlock Holmes, who seemed to know the entire force of Scotland Yard by name, proclaimed that being socially decent did not matter when "the game" of chasing a serial killer had begun.

The army doctor should have been frightened by the excited gleam in the "world's only consulting detectives" eye when he saw a woman lying dead on the floor and then proceed to tell the Detective Inspector everything from her home town to the state of her marriage. He most likely should have been frightened when that same man was in possession of the very item that he himself had said the murderer would be in possession of. And he should have been terrified as he ran, psychosomatic limp forgotten, along with Sherlock, after someone they both knew to be a serial killer.

But, as irrational and inexplicable it was, John Watson only felt scared as he watched the "sociopathic" young man raise a pill that could very easily be poison to his lips. And he only stopped feeling scared after he had put a bullet through the deranged cabbies heart and Sherlock had dropped the toxic medication.


	2. Sick

**A/N: Well, here's chapter two! Obviously, these aren't sequential. And they won't all be this short. These just seemed to kind of end themselves right where they did and everything I added seemed stupid. Enjoy!**

John Watson found himself on the floor of the bathroom less than ten minutes after he arrived at Baker Street. Sherlock's face, streaked with lines of blood that looked black against his skin that was much too pale for a living person, swirling with a dark, long figure tumbling through air, appeared in John's mind like a malfunctioning video. The dizzying flight and grotesque appearance of his best friend had turned the well experienced army doctor into a shivering, sweating mass on the tile. He leaned over the toilet as the blood soaking Sherlock's hair replayed in his head.

He sat back moments later and pressed his back against the wall. He wiped his forehead and tried to calm his breathing. But the shallow breaths quickly became uneven and racking. Tears that had been frozen behind John Watson's unfocused eyes since that horrifying plunge finally made their appearance and melted down his lined cheeks. The sobs that ripped out of his throat progressively became louder and more violent until he realized he was yelling. He wanted to say something. He wanted to scream at Sherlock for leaving him. At Mycroft for pretending to understand. At those people who wouldn't let him take his best friend's hand as he lay broken on the sidewalk. But he could think of no words that could communicate what he needed to say. So he just yelled. He knew he would be keeping Mrs. Hudson awake, but, though he would later be ashamed to admit it, he discovered he didn't care. His voice gave out before the tears. So he sat, chest heaving, gripping the edges of the rug until his fingers went numb. His head was spinning and his stomach still hadn't settled. So he stayed where he was and let himself cry, just this once, because he didn't know how else to get rid of any of the agony burning in his chest.


	3. Why You?

**A/N: So, yeah, I said they'd be longer. It wasn't happening. But I did say "short drabbles," right? …Sorry. Anyway, I personally have always wondered what happened between John leaving for Sarah's and Sherlock getting to the pool, so here's my take. Enjoy!**

"Don't worry, Johnny boy, I won't kill you yet. I need you for- how should we say it- leverage." The empty swimming pool refracted and amplified every word and sound, turning the speech of Jim Moriarty into a bizarre chorus. "And Sherlock won't be here till midnight. So, let's talk. I have a question for you." The explosives seemed to squeeze tighter against John's chest when he thought of the detective walking directly into the trap. Moriarty continued, his dark eyes fixing directly on the face of his captive. "Why you? What is so remarkable about you? What about John Watson changes the great, heartless Sherlock Holmes into something almost _human_?"

John wasn't planning on answering him. But the questions repeated themselves in John's mind until he couldn't stop himself from spitting out an answer. "I don't know. I don't understand why he listens to me either, but I will say this. Sherlock Holmes is not a freak or a psychopath. He is not only human, but a brilliant one. He is a good man and a hero." The word stuck in John's mouth, bitter and tacky with the memory of the exchange he'd had only hours before, but he continued resiliently. "Which is something _you_, James Moriarty, will _never _be able to claim."

"Right…." The consulting criminal answered, looking confused before realization dawned on his face. "Right! I understand now! That's so simple. Not nearly as clever and profound as I thought it would be. But, I suppose it makes sense…."

"What are you on about?" John, after having been abducted, strapped into a bomb, and used as bait, was not in the mood for the nonsensical rambling.

"It's quite simple, actually. You see, you believe that his deductions are brilliant, and tell him so, which is what first got him interested. Not many people appreciate it when he tells everyone about their dirty little secrets. But it's more than that. You actually believe that he is capable of _caring_, of doing the right thing for someone else. Now _that_ is something that no one's ever believed before." He moved to get into his position on the opposite side of the glowing water, adjusting his suit. "So, thank you, Doctor. That was enlightening."


	4. Dog Tags

**A/N: Hello all! So, this particular was inspired by another fanfiction called "Five Times" by atasteofarmageddon. It's a very good story, so if you like this chapter I suggest you go read it! Also, thank you to any of you who have followed or favorited, I greatly appreciate it. And now, enjoy!**

John was seated in his dilapidated arm chair, the Union Jack pillow bunched up right at the tense spot of his back, hoping to settle down after a rather tiring day at the surgery. But when Sherlock called him from upstairs, the only thing that surprised John was that he was upstairs, where John's bedroom was. He had given up sighing every time Sherlock yelled for him to "come quickly!" or "bring a petri dish" or "put on your coat, Lestrade called." It would have made him sound like a permanently boiling kettle. So he just heaved himself out of chair and dragged himself up the flight of steps. He was much more surprised, however, when he saw _what _Sherlock was doing in his room.

"Of all the places to put these, I wouldn't think the very bottom of your drawer would be the most obvious."

"What do you want me to do with them?" John asked, staring at the chain of small silver beads with two, slightly worn metal discs clinking quietly as Sherlock held it in the air in front of him. He decided to ignore the fact that Sherlock was looking in the very bottom of his drawer, though it did not exactly make him happy. "I'm not going to wear them, I don't want to hang them up, and I have no one to give them to." The end of the statement stopped Sherlock's already forming retort.

"Why would you give them to someone? They're yours; they have your name on them."

John didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the man's obliviousness to displays of affection. He reached out and took the dog tags, their familiar engravings-his last name, blood type, and other essential information-glinting in the faint light. "Sentiment, I guess." Sherlock was still staring at John, one eyebrow quirked slightly higher than the other and his lips pursed in a thin line. John stared stubbornly back- this man was a genius. He surely didn't need any further explanation. But finally the detective sighed heavily and rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"I obviously don't understand, so if you would please…"

"You've got to be joking." At Sherlock's frustrated groan he gave in. "Right. People usually give their tags to someone they care about; their wife or child or something. It's kind of a way of reassuring said loved one that they're safe, they don't need them anymore. And the person receiving the tags wears them because it reminds them of the person that served. And I don't think you're getting any of this so I'm just going to stop now." John was watching Sherlock closely, hoping for a moment of realization or a nod of understanding or even just a flicker that Sherlock recognized that John was speaking English. But it didn't happen. If anything, the confusion seemed to grow. "Ok, let's just leave it, yeah?" He rose and carelessly dropped the souvenir of his Army days onto his bedside table before walking out of the room, calling to Sherlock until he heard the lanky man follow him down the stairs.

Sherlock spent the rest of the evening, and most of the night, playing the violin. He stared out the window and skimmed the strings with his bow, brow creased in deep thought. John simply ignored him; it was normal Sherlock behavior after all. But, the next morning, when John noticed that the tags were not where he had put them and that there was a silver chain around Sherlock's neck, he came to a sudden understanding of what Sherlock had been so engrossed in the night before. And he turned away very quickly so the incredibly observant man would not see the smile that was on the man's lips and the film of tears in his eyes.


	5. A Game

**A/N: Well, my longest chapter yet! I personally really like this one and I hope you do too. Also, I really would like some suggestions of what to write, as I'm kind of running out of ideas. So, if anyone has any, please let me know! Alright, enjoy!**

"He thinks he's one step ahead in the game," Sherlock whispered to himself, a smile twisting itself into place. He was in the lab of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, working through the quiet hours of the night with a young pathologist by the name of Molly Hooper. The same Molly Hooper who now froze over the tray of vials she'd been working on.

"What?"

"Nothing. I didn't say anything."

"Yes, you did. You said 'game.' Is that all this is to you?"

"Molly, just focus on your work." Sherlock was not in the mood to talk. In fact, the only thing he wanted to do right now was return to Baker Street, sit in his chair with two nicotine patches on his arm, listen to John sleep in the room above and do his very best to not think about Jim Moriarty.

"No!" Sherlock looked surprised. Molly had never said anything so harshly to him, or possibly anyone. She seemed slightly shocked herself, but took a deep breath and gathered her courage; she was usually content doing what Sherlock asked without comment, knowing that whatever he was doing was for the good of others, but she was not just a tool to be used for whatever purposes Sherlock had in mind. Her stomach was twisting itself into knots now that she knew what all the preparations where truly for. She had not squirmed when she had thought Sherlock was simply taking his own life in his hands—he was a brilliant, capable man who could take care of himself. But as realization hit that this hoax was to be more permanent than she had imagined, her thoughts turned to the ever present Dr. John Watson, and the way he would look to Sherlock for every answer, and she had to close her eyes in an attempt to not see the emotions burning in the veteran's tired blue eyes. Molly took a breath to collect herself before continuing in a soft, but very angry voice. "I heard you correctly, I know I did. And I _will not_ help you break a good man's heart, just so you can be ahead in some sort of sick game you're playing with an even sicker man."

Sherlock gave her a sad, lost look that was only ever used during late nights in the lab with Molly Hooper. "That isn't what I meant, Molly. Now please, we don't have much time."

"I already told you. I'm _not helping_," she answered steadily before his kaleidoscope eyes could drain the last bits of bravery out of her.

"What is with you people and refusing to help when you're upset with me?" He was referring to an incident with John, that much was clear through the merest hints of affection coloring the words that Molly knew did not apply to her. He seemed agitated, annoyed that it seemed only he could ignore his emotions when work needed doing. "Alright, fine. Listen, Molly, I didn't mean it like you think I did. This isn't a game to me. I mean… It was at first. I thought Moriarty was brilliant. I could ignore the fact that he was putting innocents in danger, because he was _brilliant_. But, well, I guess it stopped being a game for me when he strapped ten pounds of explosives to John's chest. And this," he paused to lock eyes with her and gesture vaguely at the surrounding instruments and chemicals. He bent a little, and his hand flinched toward her, as if to take her by the shoulders but he decided against it. "This isn't something I want to do, Molly. But if I don't die, I think John will." Molly could see the muscles in his jaw tense and he looked away for a second. And it was clear to her, after so many days watching him work, that that was the closest thing to emotion most people would ever see Sherlock Holmes display. She remained silent, trying not to breath for fear it would disrupt the intimacy of the moment, until he looked at her again with that lost—she would have said confused if it was anyone other than Sherlock—look.

"Er…. Right. Well, I'll," she gestured vaguely toward the vials she had been working with earlier, the moment of lion-hearted bravery completely vanished. He nodded and they both bent their heads and worked in silence.

Two hours later, when all necessary preparations were completed and Sherlock had begun to play with the small rubber ball that was vital to his plan, Molly was gathering her stuff to leave. She was exhausted, but she purposely went slowly, knowing the next time she saw the man, it would be after he jumped off the roof of that very hospital. She shuffled toward the door, watching Sherlock as he threw the ball with increasing vigor.

She took a breath and the detective looked up at her. "Sherlock," she began hesitantly. She wasn't really sure what to say, but she had to say _something_. "John…. John cares about you very much." It wasn't what she had really wanted to be her parting words, but it had come out and she was now ready to turn and scurry away like she always did. She had just gripped the handle of the door when his voice, soft and hesitant and not at all like Sherlock, made her freeze.

"When you see him after, will you tell him the same from me?" Molly caught her breath as a wave of grief washed through her. She didn't turn, she couldn't look at him again, so she just nodded, eyes closed against the onslaught of emotion. "Thank you, Molly," he whispered, almost too quiet for her to hear, and she hurriedly walked down the long hall and out of the morgue.


	6. The Cat

A/N: Wow. Guys. I am so sorry. There is truly no excuse to explain my rather long absence. Hopefully this chapter will make up for it slightly and I'll try to update again really soon. Thank you for the reviews and follows, they are all greatly appreciated! Again, sorry. And enjoy the chapter!

The atmosphere and decoration of 221B were, for the most part, quite stagnant. Clutter on every available surface and books strewn about. A kettle on the stove top, whether it was just used, about to be refilled, or completely forgotten in the excitement of a case. The spray painted smile reflected in the mirror above the mantel and two chairs, facing, as if waiting for their designated occupants to finally return and launch into their banter that was often mistaken for arguing. A violin case sitting open and haunting melodies hanging in the air around it. It smelt of tea and rosin and paper and chemicals and occasionally gunpowder. It was warm and messy and very rarely quiet, but it was always inviting and comforting to its two tenants.

Changes were few and far between and often subtle when they came. The skull grinning from the opposite side of the room, a knife stuck into the wall instead of the table, books being rearranged. Which is why, when John returned home from a trip to visit an old friend and sank gratefully into his old armchair, he was very put out by the grinning, waving cat that now rested on the mantelpiece.

"Sherlock," he called, hoping his flat mate was around to explain the new knick-knack, "Why do we have a Lucky Cat?"

He remembered quite distinctly the shop in London's Chinatown, which had secretly been the base for drug smugglers. The woman working had offered, positively enthusiastically, the strange little trinket when John and Sherlock had been investigating the code graffitied on a painting at a bank.

"It's for your birthday, John," was Sherlock's answer when he finally looked up from his microscope. John twisted to look from his chair.

"My birthday was five months ago. And I know that we have not had it that long. And since when have you cared about birthdays?"

"I don't. But I figured you might, and I couldn't remember when it was…." Sherlock trailed off as if this was fairly obvious.

"So you got me a ten quid Lucky Cat from a shop that was illegally smuggling drugs into Britain," John replied, turning back to the evening paper. He really didn't care if Sherlock remembered his birthday. The man could barely remember to eat, so it really would be too much to ask for him to keep tabs on an insignificant day simply because it was the anniversary of John's birth. He just found it amusing that this was Sherlock's attempt to be slightly more human for John's sake.

There was no answer, as was expected. In fact, this conversation had been one of the longest in days, as Sherlock was testing a hypothesis he had developed from a recent case. So John just contented himself with smirking into his paper and trying to avoid looking at the, honestly very creepy, yellow cat.

A few hours later, when there was no longer any light seeping through the windows and Sherlock had switched from his microscope to his violin, John stood to retreat to his bed. He took a moment to survey the flat that he had been sharing with this man for several months now. He smiled as he realized that, as decorations go, from the game board pinned to the wall with a knife, the human skull staring blankly out at the room and the eclectic wall paper, the Lucky Cat was not at all out of place.

"Sherlock, thanks for the birthday present," John said when the flow of notes broke for a moment. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow at him in acknowledgement and resumed playing as John went up the stairs, feeling that warm, peaceful tiredness that he now only associated with violins and lab equipment on the table and books on the floor and waving, grinning cats.


	7. Mantra

**A/N: Ok, this one is very short. My apologies. And it took a long time to update as well. I would blame college life, but in reality, it's because I have developed a rather unhealthy obsession for BBC's **_**Merlin. **_**I highly suggest to everyone. But anyway, here is my attempt at saying "I'm sorry for the ridiculously long update times and short chapters." Unfortunately, I, like Sherlock, am not very good at apologizing. Enjoy!**

"Love is a dangerous disadvantage." It was a well-known philosophy of Sherlock Holmes. It made sense, really. People can, and will, take things you love, and hurt them, keep them from you, _use _them. Just to get to you. Because love makes people act without thinking and without knowing and _who cares _about the consequences. Because love makes every inch of your body ache and burn and _hurt. _And Sherlock Holmes was not about to let anyone cause him so much pain just because he had shown weakness in affection.

John Watson however, did not agree with him. Now, there were many things he did not agree with the eccentric man on. He did not believe that he was required, by his agreement to move into 221b, to purchase the milk _every time _they ran out. He did not agree that the kitchen was a suitable place for conducting experiments or that guns were a fantastic way to alleviate boredom. But, without a doubt, he did not second the notion that love made a man weaker. In fact, he disagreed so fully that every time Sherlock made that very point, John just gritted his teeth and repeated, several times if necessary, that love is the greatest advantage one can have. It gives you something to fight for.


End file.
